


that green light, i want it

by SecretReyloTrash (BadOldWest)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: As God of this universe: No One Sees Them but it was certainly possible, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, F/M, Fingering, PWP, Public Hand Jobs, Public Transportation, Pure Smut, Random Hookup, Semi-Public Sex, Strangers, a decent amount of eye-fucking then love, a street-cat named babette, commute buddies, let's just say it's a long ride home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-07-06 06:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15880332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/pseuds/SecretReyloTrash
Summary: Maybe it’s being baked alive inside public transport, but there’s something dreamy about her, unreal. Or too real, in a time that he paid little attention to the people around him, just music or a book or staring at the streets out the window. He accepts the impulse. The closeness of her, her bare shoulders, the way her clothes fit over her skin. He tries to prevent his legs from brushing hers, but it’s the fit of the tiny seat and his large body. But she doesn’t glare at him when it happens, like some women do. She doesn’t flinch away, like she’s been burned.Ben has a long commute home. Rey enjoys the ride.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Musical Vibes (I you want them):
> 
> Eliza Doolittle: Skinny Genes  
> Kate Nash: Pumpkin Soup

The back of the bus has a churning sensation to it, but he’s not easily made sick and the front upper level bears similar motion sickness with the added appeal of managing the impossibly small stairwell on a moving vehicle. It was too hot, at this time of day, to manage that climb. His feet, even when the steps were at their widest, still only fit halfway on. He chooses a window seat at the back of the first level. It’s cramped, glaring with sunlight, but at least he can sit down and stare at nothing until he gets home.

Traffic at this time of day is hell, the brakes pumping like the eaves of an accordion. Stopping and starting. Baking as the sun passes through the windows. Unable to move from his seat. 

He sees her as soon as she climbs aboard, but  _everyone_  does.  _You can’t not look._  Little shorts clinging to her hips, the tendril of her one earbud pressed like a secret in her ear as she swipes her card and grabs onto a pole. The sun glances over her, she rides the sway of the moving bus with bent knees. It’s so oblivious of the commute, of the misery in this hothouse of public hell, that his breath leaves him in an angry hiss at her ignorance, her mild smile as she listens to music. The old woman on the aisle seat, caging him into the window, gives a glare at his quiet outburst of annoyance. He prays she gets off soon, freeing him a minute to breathe. His is the last stop, and the inching state of the 5:15 bus, when everyone was trying to get home, is trying his little patience. They’re already twenty minutes behind schedule, and with each creep forward they look further sunken into a mire of traffic. 

The girl, somewhat anonymous with her aviators and scarf holding her hair up, makes silly faces through the plexiglass divider at a baby in the seat closest to her, brushing her fingers along the pudgy hand stretching towards her with her mouth agape with a smile. He’s not the only one looking at her,  _everyone_  is looking at her, because she’s just that type with that smile and that charm and those hips that ride the sway of the bus as she stands defiant in the aisle. The car is stuffed to the gills, everyone hot and late and irritated, and she’s the only one unaffected, uncaring, laughing with a stranger’s baby. He’s been here for a half hour, and seen how conversations have dropped off and everyone started glaring out the windows and syncing their breaths to the stops to breathe fresh air when the doors swung open. He’s so tense it’s like his ribs don’t let his lungs expand. Those breaths got further and further apart. The woman next to him is dozing off, her groceries pressing into his ribs, half-filling his lap. He can practically smell the yogurt curdling as the bottles sweat. He should be in his flat, pressed to the cool tile of his bathroom, or airing out the living room with a beer in his hand. It was too fucking hot for anything else. Instead, he’s got his schoolwork shoved under his knee and his legs cramped, pinned by an old bat, and dying to just get home. Staring at a girl who is merely looking at her phone now, her face not catching up with the collective misery of the environment. She’s even dancing a little bit, just at the hips, only one earbud in. He looks closer and see the loose hanging cord of the other one, broken, decapitated, frayed copper wire glinting in the sun.

 _Just buy new headphones,_ he finally decides on his moral judgement or her, leaning back in his seat. He’s satisfied he found something wrong other than a gentler nature than his. He can’t exactly make her feel bad about that. 

 The doors open again. Deep breaths taken. The bus half-empties, half-fills, and she is brought further down the aisle towards him as she makes room for the next group to trudge on. Her hand slides across the length of the safety bar, her face in his direction with pursed lips, but she could be looking anywhere. 

She tips a water bottle to her lips, and he wants to die at the thought of a cool drink right now. Watching her throat work as she swallows, her tipped back, neck opening up the contour of her sternum and breasts. The sweat on her chest gleams. His mouth dry, he’s beginning to suspect she’s a mirage. 

It is the kind of heat that makes for lazy eroticism: sexuality without succession. He would no sooner act on the impulses than he would throw himself off this bus, as he imagines doing, all motivated by the smothering sensation around him.  Images in isolation that make the mouth water, but no images that follow, with sequence the imagination taking only what it gets and finding a base desire from it. Those legs should go around his waist, nowhere else, those lips on his, those breasts causing the same suffocating weight on his chest that the heat is. The heat squeezes at him, so he pretends it’s her skin.

Close up, the hair bound with a scarf around her skull keeps a good deal of unruly strands out of her face. The shorts hug her ass tightly, with the grip of a firm hand. Her boots keep her planted firmly on the floor, one arm slung needlessly through one of the safety bars overhead. She exudes a trust of this bus to get her home that all other passengers have long abandoned with the announce of delay after delay. 

As if she knows he’s thinking about her, she glances at him from her phone, but the aviators make it impossible to discern an emotion from her about that. It takes her a minute to look away, but when she does, her back arches in a stretch.

The old woman jolts awake, her eyelid fluttering. 

“Where are we?”

 _“Hammersmith,”_  he closes his eyes. He resents having to speak. At this rate it’ll be  _hours_  until he gets home.

Parsley slaps across his cheek when she rushes to stand up. At least that means she’ll be gone soon. And the droplets of water on the leaves were the cold shower he needed from staring at  _her._

The girl with the scarf steps courteously back as the old woman passes, her eyes now gazing out the window. He hopes she enjoys the view. At this pace she’ll be looking at it for a long time. Her calm causes spite in him, he knows it’s wrong, but it coils in quiet, untapped violence. Possessive. His hands fist on his lap. He thinks of the person who could act on these impulses, on her, but knows that his knee jerk reaction of annoyance and snark would scare her off,  _so why even try?_

Before he can try to reclaim the vacated seat, the girl brushes towards him and flops down, sighing as she stares out the window. The shock of tanned, muscled legs and their proximity to his body makes him stiffen. The sun dances over her freckles as they round a turn. She reels back at the noise he lets out, falling again to his side when the bus straightens course and they are jerked to the other direction. 

“Something wrong?”

Her nose is wrinkled at him. The noise he made could be considered unsettling. He just didn’t think she’d ever get close. 

But he does feel crushed, and folded in half, and uncomfortable, and he knows he’s only going to get worse if she doesn’t…

“I was going to…I would prefer the aisle. I’ve been trapped in here for a long time, and I’d like to…”

She seems to be holding back an accusation of  _manspreading_  when she sees his folded legs, knees very close to the center of his chest. It is a seemingly impossible fit. Wordlessly, she rises, tucks herself by the window when he vacates the seat. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. She rests comfortably against the window, watching him still adjusting his legs to settle awkwardly in the small space. He knee bumps hers. He flails a hand in her direction in apology, she waves it off. 

“I’m towards the end of the route anyway, You’d have to climb over me at some point.”

He feels impossibly awkward and monstrous next to her. He chooses not to inform her that he’s the last stop. She’s smiling at him until she’s not.

 _“Sir?”_ She swivels towards him, her elbow rested on the window ledge. “Are you alright?”

The heat is really getting to him, his head falling back sleepily. 

“Want this fucking ride to be over,” he mutters, and she merely looks surprised. 

Kindly, someone the row ahead makes bleak mention of a parade blocking the way, public transit thrown into turmoil. Apparently trains are just as bad. The girl leans forward with her arms crossed on the back of their seat, making idle chatter of  _‘of course’_  and  _‘always this time of year’_  and  _‘horrible, can’t imagine being stuck underground during this.’_

Her tank top rides up to expose her spine. Sitting next to her is smothering him, he almost commits to just abandoning the seat but that meant someone else can have her, and he’s stubborn enough to stick with the only person he’s ever wanted to be next to on the bus. 

He ignores it with his eyes closed. He doesn’t know how much time passes. It feels like the bus has only moved ten feet. Something cool brushes his cheek. 

He turns his face into her hand, which is testing the flush on him. Feverish. Her cold fingers feel so good. He can only imagine how sweaty he is. Her eyes search his, aviators now pushed up to rest on the top of her head. 

“I’m sure I’ll regret offering,” she holds out the water bottle. “I swear I’m not weird. Or sick. But you look like you need it.”

“What?”

 _“No germs,”_  she says, loudly and slowly, “here.”

The cold bottle nudges his palm, sends a chill down his spine. 

Tentatively, he accepts it. His eyes flutter shut as he sips. He could only wish the cool on his tongue tastes like her.

Maybe it’s being baked alive inside public transport, but there’s something dreamy about her, unreal. Or too real, in a time that he paid little attention to the people around him, just music or a book or staring at the streets out the window. He accepts the impulse. The closeness of her, her bare shoulders, the way her clothes fit over her skin. He tries to prevent his legs from brushing hers, but it’s the fit of the tiny seat and his large body. But she doesn’t glare at him when it happens, like some women do. She doesn’t flinch away, like she’s been burned. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, handing it back. 

“Rey.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t return with his name. She goes back to the window, her mouth drawn. Her own head tilts back, eyes closing. How can she be so calm, when he’s so angry and overheated and  _annoyed-_

“Where are you headed from?”

She’s chatty, and he usually hates that about public transport. Now he just wishes it was easier for him to have things to say.

“Class.”

Her legs swing, lifted at the knee so her feet don’t touch the ground. How could she be  _mobile_  in a heatwave like this, everyone else was collapsing into their seats-

“I was just getting a late lunch with some friends. Went to a museum.”

Short-shorts like that in a museum; Rey was quite daring. 

“What was your class?”

“Just a, um, theater class.”

“You’re an actor?”

He shakes his head. “Script analysis class.”

She nods slowly, like they have all the time in the world to get to know each other. Which, at this rate, they do, but she could at least be angry about it.

“What play?”

“Ironically,  _No Exit.”_

She laughs, the bus passing a radiated shopfront window that reflects the blazing sun back at them, his eyes burn. Hoping to put a neat pin in this conversation, he continues;

“Hell is other people, you know.”

She takes the cue and goes quiet. Maybe it’s good he fucked this up already. He felt out of his depths with Rey. Her casual closeness, her bare limbs. She presses the dewy bottle of water to her neck, it looks so wonderfully cold, shimmers in the sunset.

Her arm brushes his. He shuts his eyes, trying not to enjoy her skin the way his body clearly does. 

“Feeling better?”

His breath presses out of him. “What?”

“The water,” she pantomimes drinking from the bottle, like he’s slow. 

He clears his throat. 

“Yes,” and he pulls out a book and rests it on the crook of his knee, crossed over the other leg and sticking his foot out into the aisle. He poises a pen over the lines, as though doing serious work. She watches. To prove his point, he underlines something fake-pensively. She gets comfortable, wedging a boot between the window frame and the seat back in front of her. to prop up her leg He watches the laces of her Doc Marten tremble with the vibration of the engine from the corner of his eye. 

She takes a sip from the water she offered him, her lips touching where his lips did. It’s sort of a gutting thought. This is some kind of heat stroke-induced delusion, he’s sure of it.

She chews her thumbnail as she stares out the window. How easily he finds he misses her when he’s scared her away. Her ears are flushed, the only sign the heat affects her at all. 

Without thinking, he blows a soft stream of air onto the shell of her flushed ear. The loose strands of hair hanging over it stir. She shivers. 

“Are you?”

“Huh?”

She looks at him too readily, her pupils large and dark. There’s a flush under those freckles. 

“Are you hot?”

Her spine curves, digging her body into the seat. “Yes. Been melting all day.”

“You don’t look it.” He taps his pen against the toe of her boot. “Those can’t be very cool.”

He bites his tongue when he realizes that talking points, for him, often came in the form of things to criticize. _What an awful way to start up a conversation._

She fidgets, which with one foot propped up, makes her thighs fall open. He tries not to ride the natural curve up those legs to where they vanish under the hem of her shorts. He can imagine the toes curling in her sweaty socks, the lack of traction inside.  _“I like them.”_

There’s a whine there; finally, the heat has gotten to her, under her skin. She was too happy before, the sadist in him now enjoys her irritability, her fidgeting. 

“But it’s no day to wear them. Today is only for lounging around in a cold bath, eating fruit and reading or something.”

“I…”

As though he’s dressed more appropriately for the heat. Her eyes fall to his bended leg. There’s a hole in the black jeans above his knee. There’s something about the subtle exposure, instead of her miles of bare skin, that makes him feel glad to be viewed. He watches her fingers flex over her own knee. Like she’s pretending to strum the hair on his leg through the hole, something he, in sun-drunk-lust, lazily imagines her doing while taking his cock with a messy sort of mouth, like it's full of melting ice cream. Abstract images of melting and sunshine and pleasure. 

He’s just imagining. 

_“Is that what you’re going to do?”_

Her tone is pointed, maybe nudging. A cat scraping up against his back, exploring, initiating. 

He’s still face-down in his book, scribbling on the margins. “I’ll probably soak it off until the sun goes down. Maybe have a glass of wine.”

Loose limbs, a good buzz, bringing warmth to an already flushed face. It’s too hot to leave one's eyes open too long, in appealing to her interest, he has crafted the perfect afternoon that he never would have picked for himself. Now it’s a plan.

“My flat doesn’t have a tub,” she sulks, her palm over her mouth as she glares out the window. After a second, her face twists up in a sheepish smile, as if to say,  _Oh well._

She’s good-natured, he likes that, among many other synapses connecting over the course of this ride. 

“Big claw-footed one, in mine. Overlooks the park. Though I can’t stretch out in it, my knees always stick out. That must be nice, if you don’t have to. You  _look_ like you wouldn’t have to.”

She nods, her eyes on his knee again. She experimentally nudges her leg against his. He doesn’t flinch away. She’s braver than he is. 

“Sir…”

“Kylo,” he offers. Kylo has been the protagonist (not him) of the play he has been writing since he was a teenager, his life’s work (not based on him) that is not autobiographical. His mother gave it one read upon the second draft and begged him to instead pursue a career in medicine. “What do you plan to do about this?”

“Cold shower,” she laughs. But there’s an awkward pause, as if they both don’t know exactly what she means. “Then when it gets dark I’ll probably walk around to see if there’s any breeze. My flat doesn’t have air conditioning so there’s a lot of ways I have to get creative. Lounging around naked and everything.”

Her eyes flicker up, and it’s the first time they’ve looked at each other dead on, both craned back in their seats to accommodate the view. He can now appreciate detail; eyeliner, freckles, the way the sun hits her eyes. A lot of times the women who caught his eye from afar were never as beautiful up close, how he had filled in the details in his head. Rey was  _better,_  and it instantly terrified him, and her eyes roamed his face not unlike she was bargaining with herself over something.

“Sounds nice.”

She stares at his lips, licking her own.

“Has its perks.”

He leans back in the seat instead of hunching over his book. His posture towards it is more casual, posed, and he smirks when he feels her watching him. He can tell, in the daze, that they both feel good from this conversation. And that is one of the nicest feelings of all. To flirt with a stranger and let yourself be flattered they’d pay attention to you. He’s too hot to think that much about this, languid in his seat and her a ball of muscle and long limbs in hers. 

“You enjoy yourself, Rey.”

 _“Kylo,”_  her lips purse. “You too.”

He laughs, not meanly, at the look she has on her face. Impatient. Prompting. She knew he was watching her when she sat down. She sat here to make him  _do something_  about it. Her eyes linger on his face a moment too long. He just...doesn't believe it, the signals. He doesn't _not see them._ Maybe that's why he kept flirting, kept talking instead of ignoring her. There were signs.

He just refuses to believe them.

But he doesn't remove his eyes from her profile, her own eyes cast sidelong at him, examining, suspicious. 

“I intend to.”

She chews her lower lip, and in the course of thirty seconds, does about ten things with the hand nearest to him. Touches her hair, digs it in her pocket, wipes the sweat off her palm onto her thigh, bites her thumbnail again, and a few more that flash into this dance of unsureness. His entire being wills it;  _be wild, Rey_ as her hand flutters between them. He leans closer, presses his hip to her hip purposefully, and it’s the signal she waits for to drop her hand onto his thigh, her thumb circling the exposed skin under the rip of his jeans.

He leans his lips close to her ear.

“Please, go ahead.” 

She lets out a nervous laugh. “I’ve never…sorry.”

He skates a hand down the length of her arm. Assuring her to trust her impulses. This is so fuzzy, the sun glowing around them, that he’s not entirely sure it’s happening either. But her hand on him feels good, stirring the pattern of wiry hair on his leg as intimately as a lover. This _fucking gorgeous_ stranger on public transit. They watch her hand as she touches him. Like they’re not surrounded by strangers. 

“It’s okay,” he coaxes. He blows on her skin again, and her knuckles go white. Her shoulder rises to protect her neck from the subtle attack on her nerves, but a smile graces that beautiful face. 

“I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m doing,” she looks at him like he has the answers, like this is something he’s done before. It’s not; it’s crazy that she’s touching him, that he likes it, that he’s getting harder than any explicit one-night-stand in the last few years has ever gotten him. He places the book over his lap. Covering the obvious reaction.

“Is this…?”

He just tucks his head close to her ear, somewhat behind her; “Don’t be afraid.”

Her hand squeezes on his leg, stroking up and down. Her hips are making small circles, suported from the booted foot planted on the window. Grounding herself, giving herself the friction of the crotch of her shorts pulled taut against her. It’s the fucking heat, it’s the way that sweat is pouring out of her skin and she’s already so bare and exposed and his body keeps her shielded and trapped against the window. It’s squeezing pheromones out of them like a sponge. He watches her eyes, bent close and careful, as she scans the bus for anyone watching them in their seats. “I feel it too.”

Ben flattens his palm under the hem of her tank top, pressed against her bare stomach muscles that tense and twitch under his touch. He manipulates a slow circle that adds resistance to her hip movements. Inhibiting her little chase. Her head falls sideways onto his shoulder.

He re-crosses his leg so the outside knee blocks a good deal of the sight of their laps from anyone in the aisle. Everyone else is too bored and tired to be people watching, half the bus has their eyes closed praying for the traffic to end and the rest look asleep with their eyes open.

He leans closer and kisses her neck. Casually. She gives a little tremor under his lips, her hips shooting forward as she rocks back on her ass. Chorded, tanned thighs are flexing next to him. The intention is clear. This is for pleasure. 

 _“Rey,”_  he pleads. With a shaking hand she grasps his wrist and drops his own hand in her lap.

“Don’t let anyone see,” she barely breathes out, and his thumb swipes up and down over the seam of her shorts, under where the zipper ends. Her thigh trembles against his leg as her hand works its way up his thigh. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I would hope so.” But he laughs into her hair when she groans. Thank God this bus is so noisy, rush hour outside blaring on all sides. “No, forget I said that. I’m glad. I’m glad you’re a young, single woman in the city who wants to do something dangerous. And when this commute is over, you never have to see me again.”

The words sound fucking awful to him, but it's what soothes Rey. She smirks, confident again. With that look, he'd let her do anything.

“And yet you made such a good case for your place.”

She squeezes her thighs around his hand. 

“You are single, correct?”

“One track mind,” she hisses, and it’s her turn to press a kiss to his skin. It’s much sweeter. Quick and light. Right at the side of his neck as they whisper and she grinds against his fingers skirting back and forth over her center. Her top half is so still, one would never know what they were doing from the waist down with all the bodies pressed around them and the level of the seats. “Yes. But I’ve never exactly been in this situation. Done this.”

“What’s important is you’ve decided that you _can.”_

He cups her clothed pussy, sighing when he feels her shake under his hand. A few rubs against the rough denim have her quivering, gnawing her lower lip. His thumb and pinky search the edges of the garment, finding her bare skin, and dig in to the see if she’s wet underneath. 

She is. Delectably. His free hand covers his mouth to prevent the groan that falls out. She creeps her hand under his book, popping the button on his fly. 

“What’s your stop?”

His eyes cloud. When he looks at her, her head has fallen back in the seat. Thank God they’re seated in the last row.

“Supremacy.”

Those pretty eyelashes flutter. “I…I missed my usual bus to Raddus. That’s the stop I get off…” her eyes are glassy and intent on his when his thumb gets bolder, abandoning the possessive hand on her pussy to slide against her wet slit. “And walk a few blocks over.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s a nice walk,” she’s so breathy, even as she frees his cock from his jeans. Under the tent of the book, she strokes him confidently. “There’s the park, it’s a quiet street-”

“I told you, I can see that park from the bath.” He tries not to thrust into her hand.

She sighs quietly, the bus hissing as it breaks for another idling stop. When the coach jerks, he does thrust his hips into her hand. This ride can take as long as it needs to, now. 

“Your place, then?”

“Mmm,” he hums in agreement, “But since this ride is  _taking all the time in the world,_  can I get you off before then?”

_“I…”_

She flushes that he put what they were doing to words, instead of _pretending-_

“I think you started this because you want it  _here_. You want someone to see us.”

She gives him a loaded look. Her hand squeezes around his cock. 

“You want someone to see you _with me.”_

He blinks at her for a few seconds. Then, a slow nod. He leans close, slowing his movements. They both, so wound up and yet still playing chicken, slow down. Stop touching. She accepts him into the space of her lips. She leans in to kiss him back. _This_ people see, even if they don't care. A kiss between two people, who they may even know are perfect strangers, on a crowded bus on a sunny, too sunny evening. Unashamed. His plush lips sliding along hers, wet mouths tracing seams of each other, his free hand holding her head steady by the base of her neck. Her hand comfortably on his far shoulder, keeping him close.

They pull away to resume touching, too conspicuous to do while kissing. No one seems to notice the kiss, or care. There is a certain point in fury towards public transport that people stop noticing what anyone else is up to. 

He's just looking at her, her head fallen back and her neck arched. Her eyes flutter closed. Like she's napping, while below her thighs flex around his plundering fingers. She's so tight, tight as her fucking fist around his cock.

“You looked so fucking good, across the aisle. I wanted people to think you were mine. That you looked like mine.”

“Possessive,” but she smiles into the fantasy. Eyes stay closed, but an eyebrow raises. “Or a status thing?”

“Hot. Tired. Too tired to think of something creative.”

 _“Thirsty,”_  she counters, and he nods again, dipping his thumb closer to tease her entrance. He kisses her forehead, she leans into it. Delirious. This is all so fucking unreal. 

Her hand on him buzzes with the vibration of the coach engine. She leans into this, improvises, rests her knuckles on the seat and lets his cock pulse in her hand. She's clever, so good around his cock, so gorgeous he can't believe this isn't a dream, or that he's not going to wake up on her shoulder with an erection and a puddle of drool on her skin, _real_ Rey actually being horrified and dialing the cops on him.

She sweetly kisses his cheek. _"Please._ We've had our fun."

The begging tone, for the teasing to be over. In that moment he'd give her anything. 

His eyes squint shut and he curls his fingers inside her in a short, tight motion that moves rapidly enough to cause her to arch up off the seat. A hand claps over her mouth as he feels her walls ripple around his fingers. She came on his bus ride home like it was nothing. And he would worship at her feet if she let him do this to her again. 

But he feels it. The collective breath. 

 _"Raddus,"_ he blurts out, the electronic sign at the front of the coach confirming. 

The doors open. Rey slides his hand free from between her legs, grabs her back off the floor. She's shaking. He can't possibly stand up now. For a second, his mind can't break into this new setting, because she's straddling his lap with those perfect legs, but only to get out of the seat and get home. 

"Sorry," she curses, falling into the aisle as she tries to stumble past him. Her legs are unsteady, coltish, and only he knows why. He can't move, the book pressed over his lap to hide the evidence. She excuses her way through all the passengers, nearly getting caught in the closing doors before she dives onto the sidewalk. Helplessly, he watches her from the street as she watches him be carried away. 

Of course things speed up when it gets good. When he gets her, if only for a moment. He focuses on making the lingering effects of his desire for her _go away_ before he gets arrested for sporting a hard-on on public transit.

Supremacy is a quiet street, so the issue of traffic seems like a thing to distant past when they reach his stop. The white noise of the bus echoes in his ears. His skin feels cool now that he's outside. He focuses in the smell of Rey on his hand, the only thing not entirely unremarkable about this nightly walk home. The only evidence that in this heat, it happened at all.


	2. Chapter 2

If flowers were impractical, she doesn’t care. 

A visit to a flower shop is nothing but a mental clean slate; an ambitious endeavor, an attempt to right the self with a fresh set of blooms to brighten up that apartment she keeps forgetting to clean. Flowers are not about function, they are about bringing forth a mindset to function, like a proper adult living on her own in the city. Making good choices. Maybe eating a vegetable. 

Successful, grown-up people admire the effort of fresh flowers on a kitchen table. 

Flowers  _ are _ impractical. 

She cares a little. 

Her arms feel wobbly after a few blocks of cradling her purchase from  _ Bloomsbury _ , a chic and overly-expensive flower shop with arrangements to die for, hoping to catch the 91 home. But it’s starting to feel a bit too heavy and the walk seems to stretch longer instead of shorter with every street she passes. There’s a nasty blister on her heel, she’s in a nice dress, and she’s hungry. A cluster of witch hazel explodes all of its petals in a collision with a careless passerby, and she owes more to those flowers than to have them fall apart before even being put in a vase. 

With a sigh, she  _ knows _ she can take the Overground towards Supremacy from the nearest station and cut this ordeal short. But that's admitting flowers are a mistake, or admitting another mistake. 

It’s just that very odd things happen to her on the way to that neighborhood. Terribly naughty odd things, with a dark-eyed stranger with ripped jeans who strokes her until she climaxes all over his fingers and has to stumble blindly home as though she’s been dropped in a foreign city. 

And no matter how good that might feel, it is a way to feel a bit slipped away from her sense of control when entering the bus she had not intended to orgasm on for a complete stranger and yet she exited the bus a changed woman. 

Just once, those odd things have happened, so it should not be counted towards a normal trip to Supremacy. Also, she’s getting on a train. Not a bus. So that shouldn’t happen again.

She looks down at her flowers. 

Witch hazel, gooseberry, and red columbine. 

Spiky and bulbous and orange and red with prickering thin petals trembling. 

The train will make them easier to carry home. 

Her music is blaring from her one working earbud, and the song is one that she adores on commutes; pushing her to go her fastest up and down sets of stairs and through turnstiles and only coming to complete stillness when train doors whisk shut behind her and she takes a seat on the fuzzy-yet prickly upholstery. The cradle of a bus, a train car, carrying her away.

Not that she dreams about that gross, dirty fabric against her naked skin while Kylo is stroking his hands over her body worshipfully. Seated nude on an empty train car while he dutifully eats her pussy. Maybe not so empty. Maybe gloriously full of people turned on by her body and his adoration of it. 

The  _ not caring _ is the fantasy for her. The not having to be bright and civil and kind for once. To just take up space with her filth and debauchery, to not worry about consequences, to be naughty without feeling like she’s bad. 

To be with someone who didn’t need her to be good.

The modest afternoon crowd shutters her into the car, but it’s not the time of day for a lot of people. 

It is, of course, the time of day to see him again. 

He looks just as surprised. Both of them white-faced, looking at each other like  _ but I’m not even  _ **_on_ ** _ a bus.  _

She hopes he doesn’t regret it. He must, with her throwing herself over him to catch her stop, and not even thinking to finish him, or try and grab a drink afterwards. That was hardly a seductive move. What was the etiquette of letting a stranger put his fingers inside you on a moving commuter bus?

Maybe she took advantage of a guy mid-heatstroke. Maybe he didn't even remember her.

She shifts the flowers in her arms. They’re full, it’s hard to manage her thoughts and the bouquet. 

He sits up, lifts his jacket off the empty seat next to him. Clearing space. 

She could sit down. But there’s something she doesn’t know how to start by doing that. Do they pick up where they left off? Does she try to talk to a very untalkative man?

There’s no “Kylo” on Facebook within the surrounding area, and she’s checked. He might just be being polite. He may want to keep that mistake in the past, let it die, and resume his privacy. He  _ moved _ to the train too. 

She drops into a seat opposite the car from him and down a ways, looking red-faced out the window. It’s delightfully sunny, but not as hot as it was when they met. A crisp Autumn day, the sky so blue and perfect, and the train tossing amicably along the turn of the Overground track. She looks into the square little yards of passing neighborhoods. Smiles at cheeky graffiti. Tries not to check if he’s watching her. 

The train fills, abruptly, over the course of a few stops; a matinee just getting out, a conference in the area, school ending. 

School,  _ thank God, _ a few uniformed teens, as if to remind her how shameless her past behavior on coaches with Kylo has been.

She eventually stands up to surrender her seat to a woman with a baby before Kylo can. When she is on her feet, she looks over to him.

He watches, her body hot when he motions for her to replace him in _his_ seat. That's actually really kind. She creeps closer as the train moves. Hands pressed to the walls as he stares. She feels like she’s going to fall. 

He goes to stand, but she waves a hand in front of him. Goes so far as to press him down with a hand on his shoulder, not speaking, as he swallows and stares up at her. 

He places his book back in his lap.

She steadies herself with her hand there. Looks down at the city passing them. Finally catches his eye.

She does a head-count of uniform tartan, but the cluster from school has moved to the car behind them. At least the students are gone.

Her hand firmly takes the railing above her head. The other arm around her flowers. In the crush of bodies, standing between his knees. 

She is at a disadvantage here, in a very vulnerable position at his knee. He watches appreciatively. Clearly forgiving her running away.

He leans forward and smells the bouquet in her arms. There’s something kind of dashing about his warm eyes looking up at her as he inhales. They flutter shut as he ruminates on the scent. 

They both look down at his thigh. The bouquet has leaked petals all over him and his book. Rey waits for him to brush them aside, but he doesn’t.

Kylo touches the dry brown shell of a gooseberry. Perfectly round and brittle. Hiding something underneath. With a soft, crumbling sound, the orange-red berry rolls between his fingers as the rest falls apart beneath his touch. He raises his eyebrows at her. 

He bursts the lush flesh of one berry between two fingers. She narrows her eyes at him. He shrugs, smiling at her. 

She thinks she knows why, but her mouth hangs open in shock at the molestation of her flowers. He’s looking at a demure, somewhat prissy Rey, where was the girl on the bus in her short-shorts and loose tank top and combat boots riding his fingers? And what would this girl in the blue dress and the flowers do for him?

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she whispers with a vague smile that gives way to a true one when his expression turns to one of understanding. 

His fingers cup behind her knee immediately. She gulps, her breath stuttering. No one notices, the car’s too packed. 

He smiles. 

It’s like seeing an old friend.

“Hey,” she whispers, not even bothering the man reading a newspaper next to him, or the texting woman in headphones at his side. Too focused, too obviously hungover. No one stirs. 

“Hey,” he says, his voice rumbling, and there’s a relief in his eyes that they found each other. 

“Your name isn’t Kylo,” she blurts out, as though reading his mind and pointing out the holes in his relief. 

He shrugs. The hand squeezes the back of her thigh. Why didn’t she sit down, put the bouquet in her lap, and talk to him four stops ago like a normal person?

Maybe because that wouldn’t make this so interesting.

“Are you mad I lied?”

She shakes her head, wetting her lips. He moves his bag to block off most of the sight of the edge of her skirt from the girl next to him. She’s half asleep. Newspaper guy is covered, there’s no seeing any of his face, so he can’t see them. 

His fingers dance in the gap between her thighs. Spider-crawling with his nails biting at her skin.

“You can make it up to me,” she murmurs, and his fingers reach up and feel how very wet she’s been, thinking of him on the churn of this moving train.

She wants to grab him, but her balance is reliant on the railing and she can’t drop the flowers, they were expensive, an impulsive purchase of a woman living alone in a beautiful city. Trying to have her Mrs. Dalloway moment on a bracingly sunny day commuting home.

His voice is pure innocence. 

“How?”

She tosses him an annoyed look, bending her knees to brush her clothed sex over his searching hand. He twists it so merely the knuckles brush between her lips. The skirt covers what they’re doing from behind, he seems to trust his checks to each side of them every few seconds that no one is seeing. He’s more subtle than her, which helps.

His eyes plead with her to trust him, so she surrenders that he’ll make sure they don’t get arrested. 

“Buy me dinner?” she requests, but her tone is joking just in case.

He nods, serious. Firm. 

“I’d like to.”

“Where are you going after here?”

“Wherever you’re going.”

She shakes her head, but his fingers dart past the seam of her panties. She tries not to choke when they fill her up in one fell swoop. She is quite soaked. 

She grips the railing over her head with white knuckles. She’s dripping down her thighs, eyes fluttering shut, coaxed to delectable afternoon-sun pleasure by this man who’s real name she doesn’t even know. Her new favorite kind.

She motions with the flowers by tightening them in the crook of her elbow.

“To put these in some water.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Home?”

She shrugs, trying not to hiss as he cleverly finds her clit without even looking. The man can make do with very little, she must give him credit for that. He strokes it with slow, casual circles with his thumb. 

“How forward of you.”

She shakes her head with a laugh. 

“You can wait for me on the street, if you’re going to be like that.”

He in turn shakes his head. “I can. But I won’t. We both know you won’t let that happen.”

Her eyes darken. She tries not to move as his fingers fill her up again.

_ If I get you off... _ he mouths at her, then speaks the rest out loud, still almost inaudibly “...before the ride is over, you’ll just run away again.”

She begs without words, but he seems to know he holds all the cards. Her strong thighs tense around his busily working hand. She could stay like this all day, in some ways; bathed in sunlight with this man gazing adoringly up at her. It does feel better that he’s not as unhinged or as wild this time around; that traffic was bad but the guy was like a caged animal next to her. Impatience must be a thing with him, just like it really isn’t with her.

She can wait forever. 

Even now, his fingers lovingly plunging in and out of her. 

She does like hoping that she’ll get that guy again too, and feel it fast again.

“What’s your real name?”

“I’ll tell you at dinner.”

“What,” she casts a guilty look around them. It’s a commute. No one gives a shit about them. She strokes her fingers up the spine of the book in his lap, from knee to thigh. “What play are you reading for class now?”

He laughs for a minute, rewarding her with a nudging little brush against her g-spot. She almost collapses against him. _ “A Streetcar Named Desire.” _

Her laugh is cut off by a moan that she badly disguises with a cough. The train had a short stop and screeched a bit abruptly, causing gravity to move her on his fingers, more than she would have allowed. His smile in response is teasing, but he looks away from her like they don’t even know each other. 

She likes watching him. His muscles moving under his tee-shirt, in a military-style jacket she’d love to steal and wear with herself naked underneath for him. They have to be somewhat apart for this to look casual. His methodical focus, the sunlight slanting through his raven-black hair as it trembles with the vibration of the train. Thank God she wore a skirt today.

Rey smells her flowers like she doesn't even notice he's there. He laughs to himself.

She shivers as he coaxes her to his side of things, being teased so mercilessly without any relief and then left. When the train stops, his huge fingers pull out, and she feels like she might die. The edging, stop by stop, has her panting. Eventually, he does have to hold his hand against her pussy each time he stops just to help hold her up, cupping her, because her fist around the pole above her isn’t doing a good enough job with her weak legs, even after switching arms a few time. 

It’s what she deserves, she supposes, for leaving him hanging. She just panicked, before, but it’s clear he’s not letting her get away from him again.

The last encounter was scrambling and frantic; this is slow and ponderous. Him just stimulating her, digging his fingers one way and then stroking another, examining her face in minute detail as he pulls reactions from her. 

When they reach the stop that Raddus’s bus stop would be close to, at least between there and Supremacy, he seems to know that’s where she’d get off. Not on his fingers, but the train.

He stands, crowding her with his rising body as she is still between his knees. He doesn’t withdraw his fingers until she takes a step back. He grabs his bag, takes her hand in the one with his fingers still wet from her pussy, and leads her shaky-legged self out of the car. She almost falls down the stone steps of the station but he gets her out just fine. 

At the base of the steps, she does throw the arm clutching her flowers around his neck. The petals tangle in his hair. 

It’s so damn sexy, some kind of bacchanalia bouquet when his black hair comes into the mix of colors.

“You are going to kiss me,” she announces, somewhat fucked-out despite not getting to cum even once. That wasn’t fair of him; this was a much longer commute. Okay, there was no traffic, so maybe it wasn’t, but it  _ felt _ longer. 

He chuckles and bends down. The sun, undiluted, on his face is beautiful.

“You are going to take me home, and I’ll take care of that weeping little pussy.”

Just the words produce another slick gush that she feels release between her lips. Warm and naughty; he fills her panties with so much wetness. All in public. 

His lips on hers are so good without the sick feeling of doing something bad. Maybe because it still feels naughty, in the way he’s kissing her. But it’s not _ illegal.  _

It should be.

She tries to pull him closer, and he accepts it, but at a certain point they have to get where they’re going, as she left him hanging with a painfully hard cock before for the same reason once before.

She realizes she has to lead him to where she lives, because he doesn’t know. She just murmurs directions, slumped against his side as though drunk. His arm is around her. This is very automatic, very easy, their bodies seeming to remember how to do this instead of learning. 

A fuzzy orange cat appears through the bars of the park fence. 

“Babette!”

She smiles sleepily, her joy uncontainable. This is a good day. She has flowers. She has no-name mystery man. And Babette is here. 

“Babette?”

Kylo looks where she points. 

“A Street-Cat Named Babette,” she explains. The cat is following them down the curved street, one side of a full circle around the park. “She follows me home. If I’m ever drunk, we sit together on someone’s stoop together and cuddle.”

“Does she belong to a neighbor?”

Rey shakes her head. 

“She is a street-cat by choice. I don’t impose my lifestyle on her. But she’s always down to share chips with me.”

Kylo bends and scratches Babette’s ears, who turns her shoulder, offended that one would assume that the cat blatantly following them home would even  _ want  _ their attention. She doesn’t move away enough to stop being scratched, though. 

“ _ Bonsoir, _ Babette,” Rey declares grandly. Babette swipes her head affectionately along Rey’s ankle and then wanders away into the scaffolding of a nearby building being restored. 

“So Babette is French,” Kylo observes, and the moment isn't killed as much as it’s found peace. Breathing room. A moment to decide if it is smart to bring a perfect stranger, no matter how much she lusts for him, into her home. 

His smile, his sweet large eyes in this moment of peace, makes her trust her gut.

They stare at each other for a moment. Seeming to come to terms with how there is only forward from here. Getting comfortable with it.

“All cats are, in a way,” she says noncommittally. He laughs, loudly and abruptly. It sounds rare, dusty almost, like an unearthed tomb. She wants to hear it forever.

“Right here,” she motions to the edge of the park. She lives above a Chinese restaurant. She almost gets run over by their delivery scooters as she climbs the stairs to her flat every day.

He’s efficient, or impatient as she suspects, when he just lifts her up to walk her the last of the way home. She squeaks, but he’s pretty casual about carrying her up bridal-style. 

“What floor?”

She narrows her eyes. He’s going to put her down level two. 

“Five.”

He looks unfazed, and to her astonishment, makes it up the whole way without having to put her down once. How did she ever  _ leave _ this guy?

She leans close to whisper in his ear:

“When can I get in that big claw-footed bathtub of yours?”

He squeezes her as he rounds a corner, one more flight to go:

“One thing at a time,” his voice is dry, like she hit him in  _ his _ fantasy for her.

"Did you end up lying out in it the night we met?"

His neck chords at the mention of it. "There were several rounds dedicated to you in that tub."

Her laugh echoes throughout the stairwell. 

She’s giddy, a lightness in her spirit that makes her smile, and she tears one blossom free from the bouquet and tucks it into his hair. Just because. 

He accepts the adornment with little revulsion, even a little sweet bashfulness. Kissing her hand as it touches along his temple, a quick steal with a swift turn of the head. 

When they reach her door, he holds the flowers so she can unlock the apartment, and she’s slightly relieved he’s not carrying her through the threshold. 

Maybe for the second date. 

But far too much gallantry for one evening. 

She immediately regrets this impulse because she has not cleaned her apartment, but he doesn’t even notice the clutter, just surges into the space. 

“Let’s take care of you,” he pulls her into him after carefully setting the flowers down on her kitchen counter. His hands stroke her back, looking to unfasten her sundress. She can feel his breathing against her chest, it’s so intense, full bodied, lusty. 

_ “No,” _ and he swallows at her response. “I think we should take care of  _ you.” _

She drops to her knees. His cock, quickly freed from those same ripped jeans, is nice and long and red with want. Poor thing.

She moans pitifully for it, lapping at the tip, and he grabs her hair in his huge hands. Annoyed at her sad sound. But he must take it, because it’s what makes her eager.

Divine, sliding her lips up and down him. Hearing him moan without trying to hide the sounds he makes. So free, suddenly, when they're in private. Private was underrated.  She strips off her dress between sucking him and kissing his balls, having gotten a taste of him she doesn’t really focus on the steps she just puts whatever she wants in her mouth. She just wants pleasure, sensation, the suffocating heat of the day they met.

The jeans stay on. She strums the hair on his thighs as she sucks him, like she dreamed of. The scritchy circle that has her clenching on nothing. The good kind of rough. Wants to feel it against her cheek, the backs of her thighs. Feels the muscles underneath tense as he begs her to let him go.

She pulls away, disappointed when he tells her, between his teeth, that he won’t last long. 

She rolls her eyes and yanks him by his belt loops over to her face. 

“I want to make you cum before you make me cum. I owe you.”

She feels better now that she can remedy her error. 

He looks like he wants to eat her with a spoon, with enthusiastic moans between bites.

_ That’s how you get a second date. _

That’s all it really takes, as though he just needed confirmation that it was okay, before his cock is pressed between her lips and he holds her by the skull and fucks into her mouth. She moans. Loving it. Even the shudder and seize at the back of her throat when he presses too deep. Deeper still. 

So deep, she can’t breathe, but there’s pressure for only a second where her eyes roll back and then he releases and his cum floods her mouth. 

“Are you okay?”

His hands in her hair are gentle, and he’s getting down on the floor at a kneel next to her as she coughs. It's fine once she swallows. 

He looks guilty. His roughness getting away from him.

“Yeah,” she laughs, because there’s not much else to say. “If anything hurts after that, it’s my knees.”

He helps her shift her weight off of them, hands in hers.

“It’s been a while,” he admits, his face so close to hers, and he looks embarrassed. 

Rey shakes her head. “You’re fine. I kinda liked it.”

She reaches for the counter and grabs one of the flowers. This poor bouquet has taken a beating. She rips petals free from the red columbine. Sprinkles them in his hair. He’s still got the shock of orange and yellow witch hazel flurrying over his ear. 

After anointing him, she shifts back to sit on her ass, her legs fall open. Casually splayed legs like Brigitte Bardot, with a flower in her hands, in her panties and bra, in the middle of the afternoon, on her kitchen floor. The last place she pictured being taken by her handsome stranger.

Her panties are soaked through. He crawls towards her, dragging her by the hips to get his investigation of her going. Petals fall all over her bare stomach.

“So wet,” he breathes, his fingers pushing the fabric aside again to slide home. 

How is this the third time this has happened between them? What even is his real name?

She lies back and spreads her legs, not really caring anymore when he curls them in a way he had tested on the train. Her left leg spasms. 

“Been thinking about this a lot.”

“Have you?” his tone is intrigued. Rewarding. The warmth he doesn’t always show stoking enthusiasm in his tone. She wants him to sound that proud of her  _ always.  _

“Y-yeah,” she stutters as her eyes squeeze shut. “It’s no secret that I like what you do to my pussy.”

“No secret at all,” he bends to kiss her collarbone, the edges of his hair prickling her skin, then softly caressing the parts of her it brushes over. “Did you see that guy watching us on the train?”

Panic sets in. Her hands go white on the floor underneath her. Still, she bucks into his touch, wetness oozing into his palm. She knows what reaction he’s going for.

“What?”

“Hmm,” he sucks under her ear. “Business suit, looks up from his iPad and sees you rubbing your little pussy all over my hand. Don’t know how he could tell. Maybe the way you were standing. But he was so turned on by you.”

“F-fuck,” she moans, her voice high and jagged. He laughs at her. 

“Do you like hearing we were watched?”

“Oh...God,” she shakes her head as he kisses her throat. Her knees pull up to her chest, as though trying to be modest. His fingers thrust through her protests. Then she nods. 

“I do.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” 

She can’t look at him, but he knows it’s true. That it is so fucking hot. 

“That he thought you were mine?”

_ “Uhh.” _ her neck arches. He peels her underwear off, slips his mouth over her cunt. Forms a tight seal with his lips and sucks. She lays naked on the floor for him to devour. Her fingers tangle in his hair. There are still red petals all woven in. Debauched. “You know I do.”

“Hmm,” his sound is pleased. He flickers his tongue over her clit. “Sweet thing. You taste so good. You know I licked my fingers clean on the walk home from my stop? Tasted like summer.”

Her thighs shake around his ears. He steadily eats her pussy, holding her hips down with his big hands. What a perfect gentleman.

She’s naked, he’s still dressed, if tucked back into his unzipped pants.

“I wanted someone to see us together,” she admits, her eyes on him. He glances up at her, brows comically raised when inches lower his mouth caresses her cunt. “I loved the thought of that.”

“Uh-huh, sweetheart? That get you off?”

“So much,” she arches into his mouth, glad to tell the secret to someone. That and it’s something other than what she also wants to say;  _ please call me ‘sweetheart’ for the rest of my life.  _

What they’ve done is so depraved she can only talk about it with him; and she hadn’t been able to find him until now. “You’d fuck me in front of so many people. I used to get embarrassed, thinking of people watching me. Hearing me. But I want everyone to know you want me.”

His eyes are like honey in the last remnants of Autumn light. God, it burns her, but so sweet at the same time. 

“Everyone will,” he promises in a whisper, and sincerity and tenderness that he goes back to kissing her cunt with is what has her falling apart on the floor; loud as she possibly can. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overgound >>>>Underground
> 
> Please comment! I am a deeply insecure person and it helps me sleep at night!
> 
> (and if you comment there may be an epilogue overview of them dating)

**Author's Note:**

> This, no matter what, HAS to be two chapters. No more. Slap me if I write more I have so many WIPs.


End file.
